


After-hours at the Otafuku Cafe, A 21st Century Pillow Book in Maine

by sparrowdreams



Series: Cafe Otafuku [1]
Category: Cafe Otafuku
Genre: Cat Cafe, F/F, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, Lesbian Character, Namahage, New England, Original Fiction, Trans Female Character, Youkai
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 04:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14560527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrowdreams/pseuds/sparrowdreams
Summary: There's a long and storied tradition of “pillow books” & other writing in Japanese literature that embraces the romantic, sensual, and sexual. From the 11th century work of the great Murasaki Shikibu to the 17th century “Five Women Who Loved Love” by Ihara Saikaku, many authors, often women, dared to dream of passionate romance in the pages of books now hailed as classics.The short stories in the “Cafe Otafuku” series follow in that tradition. Picture a world where humans, kami, & humanoid youkai– Japanese cryptids– live side by side. Harpswell, a little coastal town in southern Maine, has begun to attract youkai and kami living on the North American east coast. It’s here that Misa, a trans lesbian namahage (northern oni), and her girlfriend Ayame, a kitchen kami, open a cat cafe called Cafe Otafuku. What happens after hours? Follow along and watch the sparks fly!Obligatory shoutout to friend and writing buddy Shuten Douji for her support & feedback on this as on my other projects. Thanks, and enjoy!





	1. Chapter 1

_(cross-posted from my blog[here](http://sparrowdreams.com/post/173500345061). Fo_ _r more on sexuality and sexual norms in Japanese literary history,_ [_click here_](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.japantimes.co.jp%2Fculture%2F2016%2F11%2F19%2Fbooks%2Fshifting-sexual-norms-japans-literary-history%2F%23.WukZfogvw2w&t=NjliOGMwZDVlODQyMjk3ZDllYzFjMGQxNDI4ZmI2OGZlNzMwMTJlZCxpNm5BUndWNg%3D%3D&b=t%3Aev9NKpBd_T3aQisI3cREkw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fsparrowdreams.com%2Fpost%2F173500345061&m=1) _for an article by the Japan Times.)_

**Harpswell, Maine  
The Near Future**

She heaved the trashbags into the dumpster with a subtle grunt, sending them in a short, sharp arc that ended in a muffled, tinny thud. Her task done, the woman stretched, dusted off her hands, and looked skyward: the stars were coming out, and she could hear the sound of waves from nearby Casco Bay.

There were mountains nearby, the ocean was just downhill, there were lots of trees, and the sunrises and sunsets were pretty. The food was outstanding. All in all, it was good here. What was more, against all odds this seemed to be the first place in the East Coast where youkai-- Japanese cryptids-- like her were putting down roots that had quickly coalesced into some semblance of a community.

Harpswell, Maine wasn’t quite paradise to Sanjo Misa, but somehow it was starting to feel a whole lot like home. The humans around here could be confusing, occasionally they could be scary, but by and large they were decent and generally accepting. They seemed, much like the older generations back in Japan, to believe in the great though often forgotten human adage that counseled _Live and Let Live._ And if nothing else, she took no small delight in one inescapable fact of money: even the particularly hardened hearts and wilfully deafened ears among the humans had to admit that the youkai newcomers had almost single-handedly revitalized the little town’s sluggish economy.

_When money talks, the humans listen-- doesn’t matter if it’s 19th century Japan or 21st century Maine. Somehow, I guess it figures._

So. One way or another there was plenty of room, even in little fir- and rock-clad Harpswell, for everyone. There was room for the human students from Bowdoin College who drove down for drinks and boating, there was room for the growing community of youkai, there was room for the sometimes endless flocks of high-wheeling seabirds, and there was even room for a wayward oni trans woman from rural Japan like Misa.

Back across the gravel driveway, one-two-three-four steps up onto the back deck, she passed through the back door, careful to lock up before ducking through the apartment stairway door passageway to emerge in the airy interior amidst bistro tables and reclaimed furniture. Misa ran a hand over one of the shelves of the little bookcase, tattered, makeshift sign eye level with her announcing _Community Library: Leave a book, Take a Book._

This was their new shrine. Their new mountain. Their home fires.

Cafe Otafuku, they’d named it, after one of the aliases of Ame no Uzume: the world-saving goddess of laughter, dance, body positivity, and toe-clenching orgasms. Misa and her _kami_ partner, Tanaka Ayame, had always dreamed of owning an establishment like this. Now they had it, and it was even getting to be a regular community oasis to humans and _youkai_ alike. Who could resist the little youkai-run cafe with the Japanese pastries, good food, and huge, fluffy, mellow cats that were somehow all hypoallergenic?

As if on cue, Misa felt a soft, fluffy thump brush against her legs.

“Oh hey Otowaka.”

“ _Meww!_ ”

The brown tortoiseshell cat-- one of four-- looked up at her in recognition and slowly closed his eyes: the unmistakable feline way to say _You’re cool. I love you._

There was a clatter of cleaning tools. A familiar head peeked up from behind the espresso bar counter, beside the softly humming fridge case and its rows of pastries on display.

“Ooh, Misa, there you are! Just a sec.”

Ayame gathered up the dropped broom and dustpan, hung them on the hooks in the corner, and dusted off her hands before briskly washing them in the little sink on the counter’s far edge. Her long, loosely braided hair had started to come undone, little wisps and strands of unsecured ink-black peeking out beneath the blue kerchief she often liked to wear. At a delightfully fluffy five eight, she wasn’t tiny, but she was smaller enough than Misa’s even six feet of height for the two of them to fit together perfectly.

They fit together perfectly, Ayame was at the sink, and Misa _had_ just taken out the garbage.

_Two birds, one stone. I think I have a solution._

“Behind you,” she grinned, before smoothly closing the gap, chin alighting on Ayame’s shoulder, arms reaching around hers, joining her soapy hands under the warm water that burbled and hissed from the high, curving kitchen spout.

After the back alley’s chill, Ayame was deliciously warm, and the gloriously ample curve of her ass.

“Hey,” Misa purred huskily, “soap me up?”

Ayame giggled. “Hah! Obvious ‘horny’ joke goes here, I think.”

“Hey now,” Misa protested, eyes flitting to the ceiling. “Those ain’t what needs cleaning.”

Like the rest of the _namahage,_ her branch of the oni people who came from snowy Akita Prefecture, Misa’s horns were thick, stubby projections that rose from her short, rough mane of undercut hair newly dyed purple. Some of the old humans around here stared-- Misa heard a few of them mutter about ‘devil people’. She didn’t know any devils; she was just an oni, was all.

“Well,” Ayame pursed her lips in mock contemplation, before reaching out to squeeze a bit more liquid soap into her partner’s waiting hands. “ _Since you asked so nicely.”_

_Those fingers,_ the oni quietly shuddered as the kami’s hands went to work around her own. _Oooh those fingers._

“ _Ne, ma’evi,_ ” Ayame murmured softly, partly in Japanese and partly in Oni, barely disturbing the comforting ambient sounds of the dimmed Cafe Otafuku.  “Let’s go upstairs and get dinner on? That good hearty stew in the slow cooker ought to be just about ready, and we have those new takuan pickles from Nakamura- _san’s_ store in Portland.”

Misa bit her lip. “D...uh….Dinner. Dinner. Sounds like a plan, love.”

With Otowaka in tow, the couple made for the apartment stairs. Home was thankfully above Cafe Otafuku, so they didn’t have very far to go.

And the subtle lilt to Ayame’s words seemed, to Misa’s ears, to suggest there would be _dessert_.


	2. After-hours at the Otafuku Cafe, A 21st Century Pillow Book in Maine (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Part Two of the Cafe Otafuku series, which For Part One, click here. Humans and humanoid cryptids– here, Japanese cryptids known as youkai– live side by side in this world. Misa, a trans lesbian namahage (northern oni) and her kitchen kami girlfriend Tanaka Ayame live in a home above the cafe, which they co-own and run. It may seem ordinary-- partners sharing dinner after work-- but they fought long and hard for this life, little quiet moments included.
> 
> Keep an eye out for hyperlinks, by the way– they’ll take you to information to learn more about some of the real places, concepts, things, and names I mention in the story.
> 
> At any rate, thanks, and enjoy!

_(cross-posted from[here](http://sparrowdreams.com/post/173588561801))_

**Harpswell, Maine**   
**The Near Future**

 Like the cafe downstairs, Misa and Ayame’s home– split between two floors atop the building they’d so lovingly restored– was a sanctuary all its own. The cedar flooring was new enough to still be fragrant, and the scent of spices and fresh coffee from their kitchen had a way of relaxing Misa even when she was still in the passageway behind the cafe.

The space bore not only the mark of their individual styles and tastes, but also of their shared history across two centuries and thousands of miles between rural Japan and coastal Maine. Paintings by their local and hometown human artists adorned some of the walls, beside adorably weird New England tourist kitsch– Ayame had gone so far as to even name the copper lobster mold that hung by the vestibule door.

Mismatched hand-me-down bookcases from human and youkai friends brimmed with much-loved volumes: Misa’s autographed first edition copy of [_Shank’s-mare_](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FT%25C5%258Dkaid%25C5%258Dch%25C5%25AB_Hizakurige&t=ZTE2MGZhMmY1MzNjYWZlZjFlOWEyZmZjNjMzYmM2MzFlYTc3OWI3MixnakkwdFRBZg%3D%3D&b=t%3Aev9NKpBd_T3aQisI3cREkw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fsparrowdreams.com%2Fpost%2F173588561801&m=1), Ayame’s second-to-none collection of herbology texts and cookbooks, travel guides from the length of the East Coast, biographies and histories, and treasures like first-edition [Ichiyo](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FHiguchi%2520Ichiyo&t=OWQ4ZjZmOWFjNDUzMjUwOWZjYWZmYTlkM2M2Y2JmY2ExM2I3ZGEzYyxnakkwdFRBZg%3D%3D&b=t%3Aev9NKpBd_T3aQisI3cREkw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fsparrowdreams.com%2Fpost%2F173588561801&m=1) and [Saikaku](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FIhara_Saikaku&t=MzI0ODAyMTY0ZTlhMzg4MmU1ZTdiZDA3NmQ1MWUxNThlNWZiNDMxYixnakkwdFRBZg%3D%3D&b=t%3Aev9NKpBd_T3aQisI3cREkw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fsparrowdreams.com%2Fpost%2F173588561801&m=1) stuff that normally stayed inside cloth wrap, all interspersed with the little stacks of paperback novels Ayame would snag from [Sanbaso](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.newyorker.com%2Fgoings-on-about-town%2Fdance%2Fsanbaso-divine-dance&t=MWRmYjk0ZmExNmVkODhlYjBmOWZlOWVmODE3M2ZiYTVkMWY4MzRiNCxnakkwdFRBZg%3D%3D&b=t%3Aev9NKpBd_T3aQisI3cREkw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fsparrowdreams.com%2Fpost%2F173588561801&m=1), the nearest Japanese bookstore, during their shopping trips to Portland. Kami and oni lived a long time, but even for them, life was too short to miss out on a good book.

The place was ample, but not needlessly huge.

There was room for their amply stocked kitchen, a cozy living room built around Misa’s mother’s old [kotatsu table](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FKotatsu&t=M2Q2N2U1NWY5MDlhMGNjNTczZmJlMWYzY2MzYWUyMmY3YTMxNzE5OSxnakkwdFRBZg%3D%3D&b=t%3Aev9NKpBd_T3aQisI3cREkw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fsparrowdreams.com%2Fpost%2F173588561801&m=1), and a bathroom that even had a proper Japanese-style soaking tub that fit both of them. Up a second, narrow flight of steps was their bedroom, beneath the high airy gable of a roof that was about a century newer than the rest of the building.

For the two of them and their little feline army, it was perfect.

After the side dishes were put together and everything gathered atop the kotatsu table, Misa and Ayame had dinner. In the kitchen, the cats chirped, purred, and loudly munched at their own meal. Once– was it really almost a century ago?– they were guardians at the shrine Ayame called home. Government edicts consolidating local shrines, together with the force of simple neglect, had rendered her homeless. So when Ayame came to live with Misa and her people, so had her cat guardians.

Misa pondered the sound of the dining divine felines. _And now people downstairs cuddle with them as they drink espresso and munch on dorayaki. Life is strange, man._

But the memory of early 20th century Oga and its political bullshit didn’t have hold on her thoughts for long. Her own meal was too damn good. The hearty beef curry with vegetables was fragrant, its big chunks rough enough that she could really sink her fangs into it for that satisfying chomp.

Pickled daikon suspended from the end of her black lacquered chopsticks, Ayame arched an eyebrow.

“Hm,” she chuckled, “I take it you approve?”

Around her mouthful of meat and vegetables and sticky rice, Misa made an approving though incoherent noise. They’d prepared it together– the rough cuts were Misa’s own work, one of her favorite ways of employing the knife skill that still made her people famous back home. But the oni had always believed that it was her partner who gave their shared meals that certain extra magic. After all, it was squarely in her domain as a kitchen kami– didn’t matter if the kitchen in question was in Harpswell or in Oga.

After awhile, she slowed down a bit: took a deep, satisfying drink of smoky lapsang souchong tea.

“So how’re you liking the pickles, darlin’?”

She reached for the serving dish with her own thicker, stainless steel chopsticks to retrieve a couple of slices of the yellow [takuan pickle](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FTakuan&t=MGU0ZTA0MThjMWUyMzY1NWQxZDUwMWRmY2U1MjBiOGU2MWNmYTI5MCxnakkwdFRBZg%3D%3D&b=t%3Aev9NKpBd_T3aQisI3cREkw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fsparrowdreams.com%2Fpost%2F173588561801&m=1). It was tangy and had a satisfying crunch that wasn’t quite like the cucumber pickles the locals in Maine liked. But these days, most pickles in general were of interest to Misa. For a namahage as for a human, spironolactone resulted in killer salt cravings in a trans woman.

 _Pickles are good,_ she thought, as she savored their crunch. _Except sweet pickles. Fuck that noise._

“It’s nice to have the taste of home,” Ayame smiled, pondering a slice of daikon between her chopsticks, surmounting a clump of rice. “But I gotta say, it’s nicer to see you so happy. Pickles and all.”

Namahage, and oni society at large, didn’t have the kind of hangups that humans did on things like gender. It wasn’t until she first lived among the humans in [Yokote City](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FYokote%2C_Akita&t=MTNmYTI3ZjRmZWRkODQ0Mjk2NmYwOWZhNTE0NDgwZDMwZDkxNzNlYixnakkwdFRBZg%3D%3D&b=t%3Aev9NKpBd_T3aQisI3cREkw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fsparrowdreams.com%2Fpost%2F173588561801&m=1) that Misa had learned the hard way: humans were far too frequently terrible about trans people, human or otherwise. To Misa’s family [back in Oga](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FOga%2C_Akita&t=ZWYwZmFhNDcxMTAzYjRkNDJhZGZhZTY3OGFiZDEwMjk0MTc1YjI2OCxnakkwdFRBZg%3D%3D&b=t%3Aev9NKpBd_T3aQisI3cREkw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fsparrowdreams.com%2Fpost%2F173588561801&m=1), her word of “I’m a girl” was enough. They’d honored that, without question. Most of the time, humans weren’t nearly so accepting, and curiously, some of them were more accepting of her as a namahage than they were of her as a trans woman.

But the humans weren’t all bad, of course. And along with many of them being surprisingly good and kind, they were also quite ingenious and inventive, especially with advances in the medical arts. Hormone replacement was around in some form for centuries, but somehow the thought of taking chemicals derived from mare piss always gave Misa a bit of pause. When estradiol and spironolactone pills became an option, though, she’d jumped at the chance. And now here she was: with a body that felt like her own, with curves that were her own, in a town where she was generally respected and seen, in a  home where, on most days, she felt beautiful.

They met eyes across the table. Misa blushed: to Ayame, she’d always been beautiful, curves, horns, human- and oni-designed tattoos, fangs, visible and invisible scars, and all.

“I think,” Misa grinned, “Nakamura-san gets a kick out of how excited I get for pickle days at his store. I mean, a namahage giddy at a case of pickled radish? C’mon.” She took another clump of takuan. _Crunch-crunch-crunch._

“Honestly,” Ayame gestured with her chopsticks, before going for a rough earthenware mug of slowly cooling chamomile, “you _are_ kinda cute about it.”

Misa shivered, a little giddy squirm quaking through her as she refilled her lapsang. “No, you.” _You’re cute_. Why was that such a turn-on to hear?

They chatted idly through the rest of dinner: of work, of the neighborhood, of gossip from back home. Ayame was excited for the new bookstore opening up in the refurbished warehouse across the street. Some of Misa’s nieces were in training for [Oga’s next New Year’s festival](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FNamahage%23Season&t=ODM1NjYxNzIyNTRmOGUxMDRmYzExMDA1ZTkyOGFkYjJhYmFhOWEwYixnakkwdFRBZg%3D%3D&b=t%3Aev9NKpBd_T3aQisI3cREkw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fsparrowdreams.com%2Fpost%2F173588561801&m=1): it’d be their first participation in the celebration that was a point of celebration and connection between both namahage and humans. The public library up in Brunswick had asked for Ayame and Misa to take part in its edible book fair. Could they bring the cats and make an entry, the head librarian had asked via email? Ayame was enthusiastic, but Misa was a tad hesitant– _after all_ , she said, _we’ll have to come up with a suitably terrible pun, like bacon in the shape of France for Francis Bacon’s_ [_Novum Organum_](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FNovum_Organum&t=ZTkyN2QwMGUwNGViYjZkYzkzNGRmZGNlZWQ1M2NkODE2NWFmMDM5OCxnakkwdFRBZg%3D%3D&b=t%3Aev9NKpBd_T3aQisI3cREkw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fsparrowdreams.com%2Fpost%2F173588561801&m=1) _._

The cats wandered over then, as if on cue, clambering into their laps and trying to hop onto the tabletop.

“I think that’s our cue,” Ayame laughed. “Let’s get these dishes settled, love.” Then, to the cat in her lap. “Sorry, Imawaka– I gotta get up.” Imawaka warbled and chirped in protest, but obliged.

With the cats brushing at their heels, the women cleared the table. Misa switched the TV to stream from her computer, and soon the clatter of post-dinner cleanup and dishwashing was drowned in the soothing, ambient sounds of dream pop. They were elbow to elbow by the sink as they worked together to do the dishes and utensils. As she toweled the crockpot dry, Misa’s eyeline briefly dropped.

“Heh.”

“Hm?”

“It’s just–” she gestured with a headtilt, then safely laid down the crockpot. “Joined at the hip.”

Ayame chuckled. “Psh. You’re cute, y’know.”

 _You’re cute_. Misa bit her lip. _Unf_.

They’d fought so long and so hard for little playful moments like this, shared around the kotatsu or in one of Harpswell’s many quiet coves or standing at the kitchen sink. The wayward, once homeless kitchen kami, and the oni soldier turned champion sous-chef, in the home they’d built for themselves halfway around the world from the land that bore them.

Her cheeks flushed red. Misa reached out a hand warmed by hot, clean dishes and cupped the soft curve of Ayame’s cheek. Hair unbound, kerchief half-undone, hands in warm soapy water and sleeves rolled up to her elbows, she was beautiful. She was strength. She was grace. She was home.

Hesitantly at first, Misa kissed the goddess who was her own. When Ayame responded in kind, their kissing grew deeper, hungrier, more insistent. Warm hands and wet hands caressing, searching, fingers fairly aching and needful.

Names and words had spirit, Misa knew; especially for oni, who so deeply esteemed honesty. So she was in utter earnest when, as the couple paused for breath beside the still running sink, she leaned in, momentarily burying her face in Ayame’s shoulder before turning to whisper huskily in her ear, a single, potent word in Oni:

“Eiyaa.”

_Take me._

**Author's Note:**

> To keep up with my work, please follow me at [Instagram](http://www.instagram.com/nyribakkalian), [Facebook](http://www.facebook.com/riversidewings), [Tumblr](http://twitter.com/riversidewings>Twitter</a>,%20and%20<a%20href=). Thanks for your support!


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